Juror Number Twelve
by thedragonaunt
Summary: Sherlock is summoned for Jury Service. Oh, dear...
1. Juror Number Twelve - The Prologue

**Hi, folks! Hey, long time no see. (Tell me about it...!) Suffice to say, I've just experienced the longest period of Writer's Block in my entire life but I can see a light at the end of the tunnel! I do intend to return to 'Grounded' and finish that story but I just need something lighthearted to ease myself back into the writing habit. So please bear with me...and I hope you enjoy this little fun fic. **

**Juror Number Twelve**

**by**

**thedragonaunt**

**Prologue**

'Oh, good lord…' Sherlock groaned, causing Molly to look up from cutting up a slice of buttered toast for Violet, and quirk a curious eyebrow across the breakfast table at her husband.

'Problem?' she asked on behalf of the assembled family, who had all ceased their individual activities to fix the man of the house with an anticipatory stare. Oblivious to all this, Sherlock continued to squint, with a pinched expression, at the letter in his hand then heaved a dramatic sigh and tossed the offending missive across the table, where it landed foursquare on Molly's scrambled egg on toast.

'Oh, I'm so sorry…' he yelped, leaping to his feet to retrieve the letter but she had already removed it from her breakfast plate and waved him back into his seat, as she rotated the sheet of paper to the correct orientation to read its contents.

The children convulsed with fits of giggling at the antics of 'silly daddy' and then William asked the question on everyone's mind.

'What's the letter about, Mummy?'

'Oh, dear,' Molly replied, 'Daddy's been summoned to do Jury Service.'

This immediately sparked a flurry of questions…

'Jewellery Service? What's that?' asked Freddie. 'Does Daddy have to look for someone's jewellery? Has it been stolen?'

'Oh, when is it? Will it be during term time or the holidays? If it's in the holidays, can I come and watch?' William enquired, eagerly.

'More toast!' demanded Violet, whose partially dissected slice still lay out of reach, next to Mummy's plate.

With a wry smile in Sherlock's direction, Molly returned Violet's toast to her and proceeded to explain to Freddie what _Jury_ Service was all about.

'If you'd like to see a court case in action, I'm sure that can be arranged,' Sherlock replied to William.

''I really would, Daddy!' said William, with great enthusiasm, 'But I'd like it even better if you were involved.'

'Sorry, Will, that's not going to happen,' Sherlock shook his head, emphatically. 'Under no circumstances will I subject myself to the ignominy of having to sit in a room with eleven utter morons and discuss the squalid details of some petty criminal's misdemeanours. I'd rather…' he paused, searching his mental database for a suitable alternative.

'I don't think you have any choice, darling,' Molly cut in, to spare her children the discomfort of hearing their father's preferred activity. 'You've already been excused once, remember? Three years ago, when you were in the middle of that big case? You only get let off once. Then you have to comply. Otherwise, they can find you 'in contempt'…again,' she added, with a knowing look.

Sherlock looked bemused for a moment then,

'Ah, yes…' he nodded, remembering the hours spent in a cell during the trial of master criminal James Moriarty. He huffed and folded his arms, sinking into his chair like a disgruntled toddler.

'Daddy on the Naughty Step!' chortled Violet.

'He will be, if he doesn't do as he's told,' Molly affirmed, reaching over to ruffle her daughter's shock of golden curls. 'Another coffee, dear?' she offered, by way of an appeasement for her poor, hard-done-by husband.

Sherlock reached over and snatched up the letter, peering at the date.

_Monday, 19__th__ September, for two weeks_, he read and groaned again.

His fate, it would appear, was sealed.

ooOoo

**OK, so there's the Prologue. I hope you liked it and that you'll stick around to read some more. **

**And a heartfelt 'thank you' for your patience. x**


	2. Juror Number Twelve - Chapter One

**Sorry this chapter is a little short. I'm just easing myself back into writing, atm. Hopefully, the updates will grow in length as the story progresses. :)**

**Chapter One**

Sherlock didn't have a lot of time to even think about his jury summons. It was the summer holidays so the boys were not at school but they were both enrolled in the local holiday play scheme, from ten in the morning, every weekday, until three o'clock in the afternoon and they needed to be dropped off and collected. As Molly was required to work fixed hours at St Bart's – school holidays or not – and Marie was still away from the family home, on an extended break*, this left Sherlock in charge of domestic matters. So, he stuffed the letter back into its envelope, stuck it between the red and the brown sauce bottles in the middle of the farmhouse table, and galvanised into action, organising the children for the day ahead.

There were sandwiches to make and lunch boxes to pack, play scheme timetables to check for activities, to make sure the boys had the correct kit. It would not do to turn up with without one's towel and bathers on a swimming day…not after last time! And there was Violet to dress and squeeze into the baby carrier. At nearly two and a half years old, she was getting rather big for the carrier but she so loved to view the world from the elevated position it afforded, strapped to Sherlock's back, and he was pretty much a slave to his daughter's every whim.

The walk to the play scheme venue and the handing over of the boys to their play leaders took about ten minutes. Then Sherlock and Violet enjoyed a more leisurely walk back home, taking the scenic route through the park. Here, Redbeard, their foundling red setter puppy and now firmly established family pet, enjoyed an off-the-lead runabout. And Violet ran about after the dog.

She never managed to catch him, even though he would stop and wait for her, adopting the canine 'play bow' posture until she was almost in touching distance. Then he would bound away with the lithe, fluid action of a sporting dog, coursing in a great circle around her, before re-assuming the bow position, ready for the whole game to begin again.

The return journey took the best part of an hour and, by the time they got home, both child and dog were fully exercised and ready for a morning nap. As was her normal habit, Violet climbed into the dog basket first and made herself comfortable, then Redbeard carefully fitted himself in around her, taking up whatever space was left available. Within seconds, they were both sound asleep.

Sherlock prepared himself a flat white, using the family coffee machine – a wedding present from Molly's St. Bart's colleagues and a much appreciated one, at that – then sat down at the kitchen table and opened the summons letter again.

His eye was immediately drawn to the last paragraph on the first of four pages.

_WARNING_, it began.

_You may be committing a criminal offence punishable by a fine of up to £1000 if:_

This stark warning was followed by a list of bullet points but Sherlock's eye was drawn to the last one.

_When your name is called, you are not fit to serve because of drink or drugs._

Now, that was a tempting prospect, he mused…but quickly dismissed the thought. If he were to slip back into old habits, even for the sole purpose of avoiding Jury Duty, Molly would never forgive him. She would throw him out on his ear and probably divorce him. Under no circumstances would she ever allow her children to see their father 'under the influence'…and neither would he. So that was that.

Flipping over the page, he read the bit about how to reply to this summons…and sighed deeply at the banality of it all. Surely, it was obvious, wasn't it? You just had to fill in the form, either the paper version – of which there was a copy conveniently included with this letter – or do it on line. He chose the second option and reached for his tablet, on the end of the worktop, to do just that.

Then, there was a page about claiming 'Allowances'.

_Financial loss, including loss of earnings, travel and subsistence._

He snorted with derision at the 'Loss of Earnings' allowance.

_£32.47 per day for up to four hours_, increasing to _£228.06 per day on the 201__st__ and subsequent days._

201st day? Good lord!

He tossed the page aside and raked his fingers through his hair, scrubbing his nails against his scalp. Never would he ever be able to tolerate sitting in the same room for up to six hours a day for 201 days… The very idea repulsed him. No, under those circumstances, he would have to resort to drugs!

He skimmed over the rest of that page, pausing to snort again at the now familiar word, 'Warning'.

_You must have the court's permission to use a taxi before doing so. Remember to obtain a receipt form the driver._

Well, talk about adding insult to injury! Did they seriously expect him to travel to the court using _public transport_? The very words caused his brows to beetle and his nose to wrinkle. This was too much. He tossed the page aside again and, this time, let it rest where it landed…on the floor, under the table. This was going to be the worst experience of his life. Worse even than…no, he couldn't even think of the next worst thing in his life. No comparison. He set to, searching his Mind Palace for a highly contagious tropical disease that he could simulate, on the first day of his service, in order to force them to send him home.

ooOoo

*Can't say too much about Marie's absence atm, as this relates to the WIP 'Grounded' but, suffice to say, all will be revealed when I complete that story. :)


	3. Juror Number Twelve - Chapter Two

**Another rather short update but I hope you enjoy it.**

**Chapter Two**

'Sorry, what?' Molly asked, her attention suddenly caught by something Sherlock had said. Standing at the hand basin, in their en suite bathroom, she was in the process of cleansing her face as part of her 'bedtime beauty regime', as Mrs H called it, and her attention on Sherlock's irritable monologue - on the theme of the injustices of the UK justice system – had wandered. She had, in fact, 'muted' him. But his last utterance had dragged her back to the present.

'Sorry, what?' he said.

'I just said that,' Molly declared.

'Yes, I know,' he huffed. 'I was merely trying to ascertain what part of what I just said your 'what' referred to.'

He was clearly still seriously put out by the prospect of attending for Jury Service and Molly was doing her best to appear sympathetic but, in truth, she rather wished he would just bite the bullet and stop being such a Drama Queen!

'The last thing you said,' she replied, turning to look at him as he stood in the bathroom doorway.

'I've said a lot of things in the last few minutes,' he retorted, with an exasperated shrug. 'Give me a clue!'

Molly's brow wrinkled in thought.

'Something about 'highly infectious disease spread by human contact'?' she offered, cautiously.

'Yes!' he exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of his feet with sudden enthusiasm. 'Do you know of any?'

'Well, of course I do. I'm a pathologist,' she shrugged, turning back to the bathroom mirror to begin moisturising.

'So…can you?' he coaxed, adopting that flirtatious look Molly remembered so well from the early days of their acquaintance when he used to try to wheedle things out of her – like spare thumbs or random eyeballs.

'Can I what?' she asked, her suspicions well and truly aroused now.

'Oh, for God's sake!' he exclaimed, his eyes rolling heavenward. 'What is the matter with you tonight, Molly? You're behaving like John Watson!'

'I'll take that as a compliment!' Molly replied, turning back to him again. 'That man is a saint, putting up with you for all these years, especially when you're in this sort of mood.'

Sherlock looked deeply offended.

'What _do_ you mean?' he sniffed. 'I'm not in a mood. What mood? I'm merely trying to engage in intelligent discourse with my wife. And you, Molly – I have to say – are being particularly obtuse this evening.'

By now, Molly had completed her bedtime ablutions and moved passed her husband, into the bedroom, to stand in front of the dressing table where she pulled free her pony tail from the hair bobble that had restrained it all day and proceeded to brush her hair.

'Just tell me what you want, Sherlock, and I'll tell you if I can help you…or not.' She added the last part as a precaution. She didn't want to be accused, at some later date, of raising false hopes.

'Molly, would you please sit down and give me your full attention,' Sherlock implored, in exasperation.

Molly shook her head, with the slightest hint of an eye roll, and complied with his request, perching on the edge of their antique double bed.

'Fire away,' she prompted.

Slowly, and with exaggerated patience, as though addressing a small child, Sherlock said,

'Can you get me some blood infected with a tropical disease which is spread by human contact?'

'What on earth for?' she asked.

'Isn't it obvious? So that I can avoid Jury Service, of course!'

'No, I can not!' Molly exclaimed. 'That's the most absurd thing I've ever heard!'

'Why is it absurd?' he countered. 'I'm not going to actually infect myself, I just want to _convince_ them that I'm contagious!'

'Sherlock!' Molly declared. 'Have you any idea what a complex raft of protocols would be triggered if you turned up at a public building with a highly contagious disease? It would cause mayhem!'

'I wasn't planning on turning up,' he exclaimed. 'I thought I would simply call in sick and submit the blood as evidence.' It seemed perfectly logical to him. 'Of course, I might have to simulate the symptoms for a day or two but I'm sure I could manage that…'

Molly pursed her lips and shook her head, fixing him with 'that look', the one that told him he had gone completely off piste.

'Bad idea?' he asked.

'Terrible idea. It would spark a national public health emergency and cause a great deal of panic, not to mention wasting a huge amount of money, spent on avoiding a possible epidemic.'

'Damn,' he groaned, dropping onto the bed in abject despair.

Molly leant over and rested her cheek between his shoulder blades, wrapping her free arm around his torso.

'It may not be so bad,' she cooed. 'You might get a really juicy murder, something you can get your teeth into.'

'I suppose so,' he sighed, rolling onto his back so that she could snuggle into his side. Somehow, things never seemed quite so bad when he had Molly in his arms.

And, anyway, it was eight weeks before he had to present himself at the court. In the meantime, he might think of something else...

ooOoo

Many thanks to WayTooEasilyObsessed for giving me a great idea for a plot device and inspiring this conversation between Molly and Sherlock. :)


	4. Juror Number Twelve - Chapter Three

**This one's a bit longer...must be getting back into my stride. :)**

**Chapter Three**

Sherlock stepped from the cab outside Southwark Crown Court – yes, a cab! And he had not asked the permission of the court. He would bear the cost himself, a small price to pay for sparing himself the horrors of public transport. He paused on the pavement opposite the courthouse, taking a moment to observe the – ugly, charmless, in his opinion - building from a distance. The dreaded day had arrived and, despite his best efforts, he had failed to find any loopholes in the system that he could exploit in order to dodge the bullet – so here he was, biting it.

The summons had stipulated he arrive at nine o'clock and he was exactly on time, but the sight of a long queue at the entrance to the court house, snaking its way around the side of the building, caused his heart to sink. He despised queuing, with a passion only exceeded by his hatred of social gatherings of any kind. And now he was confronted by both. He hesitated, weighing up the pros and cons of ducking out and just paying the fine of £1000. It seemed cheap at the price. But Mind Palace Molly was giving him that 'look', a mere foretaste of the one the real Molly would give him when she discovered his cowardly act.

The thought of Molly's disappointment forced his hand. With a quick glance to left and right, he stepped off the curb and crossed the road to join the end of the queue, which had grown by several persons while he was vacillating on the pavement.

'Is this the queue for Jury Service?' asked the next person to approach after his own arrival.

'I certainly hope so,' Sherlock replied, acerbically, not wishing to encourage further discourse. Unfortunately, this newcomer was looking for a conversation and so went on,

'They said to be here at nine so I allowed thirty minutes but I ran into my neighbour on the landing and she likes to have a chat - she's an old lady, you know, lives on her own. I expect she gets lonely so I didn't like to brush her off. Anyway, I don't suppose it matters now, with so many waiting to go in.'

The man stopped talking and gave Sherlock a friendly grin, inviting him to respond. Sherlock couldn't help himself. He was already scanning him from head to foot and the deductions were coming fast and thick…

_Southern Irish, from County Wexford…5feet 9inches tall…45 years old…former jockey… recovering alcoholic…divorced… recent hip replacement… gambling addict…_

'Oh, look! We're moving!' the man announced, breaking the spell. Sherlock turned on his heel and strode forwards, closing the gap that had opened up as the queue shuffled towards the entrance. He made sure to keep his back turned squarely on his erstwhile 'friend', just in case he was tempted to resume their 'conversation'. But he need not have worried. The Irish ex-jockey was already subjecting his next victim to a barrage of mindless babble.

Eventually, Sherlock reached the counter just inside the court entrance and was confronted by a uniformed security officer.

'Please empty your pockets, sir, of anything metallic,' the man intoned, for the umpteenth time that day.

Sherlock complied, placing his phone, keys, small change and sunglasses in the tray provided. He could see that other people had brought bags and backpacks of all shapes and sizes and these were being placed on the counter to be searched by the officers. Some of those bags contained water bottles and the owners were being asked to drink from the bottles, to confirm that they did not contain anything dangerous.

'Step this way, please, sir', came a second voice, another guard was beckoning him towards the x-ray arch. He stepped through and the machine emitted a loud beep.

_Damn_, he thought. _Belt buckle_.

Unphased, the guard asked him to hold out his arms then scanned him with a handheld detector, which identified his belt buckle as the culprit.

'Put that in the tray tomorrow, please, sir,' the man advised, and waved him through to collect his belongings from the property tray and follow the signs for the 'Jury Assembly Room'. As he retrieved his property, he overheard the loquacious Irishman explaining to the guard with the scanner that he had a metal hip which might set of the alarm. Sherlock gave a self-satisfied smirk and moved on.

Up some stairs, along a corridor and around a corner brought him to the Assembly Room…and another queue. A Clerk of the Court, dressed in a black gown, gave him a slip of paper and a pen, instructing him to,

'Fill it in and then present it to my colleague at the desk, please.'

Sherlock moved to the nearest empty table and leant over it to fill in the form with his name and contact details. He had already given this information, on his original acceptance form. He sighed at the tedium of having to repeat this process but dutifully completed the task and took it to the 'colleague at the desk'.

The lady held out her hand – but not for the contact slip. No, she required something else. There was a pregnant pause, while Sherlock and the lady stared at one another, then she said,

'Have you brought some ID, sir?'

_Oh! _Sherlock was a bit taken aback. Had he brought any ID?

'A driving license? A passport? Any utility bills?' she prompted.

_Ah!_ He suddenly remembered and, retrieving his wallet from his inside jacket pocket, he extracted his photo driving license and presented it to the lady. She compared the image with his face, checked that the details matched those on the recently completed slip of paper and then returned the license to him with a smile.

'What now?' he asked.

'Just take a seat,' the lady advised. 'Once everyone's here, you'll all be taken downstairs for your induction session.' She smiled at him again and then turned to the next person in line.

Sherlock scanned the room. In one corner, there was a desk with a computer screen, a key board and a telephone. A middle-aged lady sat there, typing rapidly. On the wall to his right was a large TV screen currently showing a news channel, with subtitles, as the sound was turned off. Facing the tv wall were several rows of chairs, rather like a cinema, most of which were occupied by other potential jurors, some watching the silent TV screen, some reading books, some absorbed with their phones.

The other side of the room was laid out like a canteen, with tables and chairs, and a servery with a coffee machine and a till. There was no one in attendance but Sherlock approached the coffee machine and scrutinized it.

'It's self-service,' said a voice at his shoulder.

'Yes, I can see that,' Sherlock retorted, helping himself to a mug from the tray beside the coffee machine. He was about to place it under the coffee dispenser when his new 'friend' reached across him and pressed the On/Off button on top of the machine.

'It switches itself off if its left unattended,' the person explained. 'Now its heating up,' he added, unnecessarily, pointing to the digital screen which flashed the word 'Heating'. Sherlock pursed his lips but refrained from comment.

'Now you can choose what you want,' Mr Helpful prompted, testing Sherlock's patience close to its limit, but he merely nodded, selected a double espresso and waited for his drink to be dispensed. The very moment the flow of hot, dark liquid ceased, he snatched up the cup and moved along to the till, tapped the card reader with his contactless bank card and strode away with all haste. He found an empty seat in the far corner and sat down, sipping his drink and casting his eye over the other occupants of the room.

There were about fifty of them, and a more random selection of the general population one could not wish for. People of all shapes and sizes, ages and ethnicities, some smartly dressed, some casual, others quite scruffy – one wore a t-shirt with the slogan 'I'd rather not' printed on it.

_You and I both_, thought Sherlock.

Most were sitting in silence, avoiding eye contact – newcomers, like himself - but a few were gathered in little groups, chatting away, animatedly. He suspected they must comprise a serving jury, returning for the continuation of a case.

To avoid the risk of random deductions, Sherlock turned his attention to the TV and was immediately beset by a slight feeling of disorientation. Such was the consequence of adding subtitles to a live broadcast. There was always a time lag between the action on the screen and the corresponding written words. He watched it for a while but the mismatch was quite irritating, so he closed his eyes and sipped his coffee, in quiet contemplation.

His repose was suddenly interrupted by a most horrendous sound from the opposite side of the room. His eyes shot open and homed in on the source of the disturbance. A man had just entered the room and was being directed to fill in the contact details slip – so far so normal. But this was no ordinary man. This man, it was clear, was in possession of a most raucous, hacking cough – the sort of cough that marks out ex-coal miners, stricken with emphysema following years of daily exposure to coal dust, whilst digging for the black stuff, underground.

Sherlock tracked the man, with a grim fascination, as he moved to a table and filled in his form. The loud, explosive barks of his affliction were interspersed with guttural, grating hawks, as he expectorated sputum and spat it, unceremoniously, into a handkerchief, held at the ready for this precise purpose.

Having completed the slip and confirmed his ID, the man looked around for somewhere to sit and, to Sherlock's alarm, made a beeline straight for his little sanctuary in the furthest corner of the room, every step punctuated by a fresh barrage of coughing and copious amounts of spitting. And, with each approaching pace, Sherlock felt an ever-increasing urge to bolt. As the Human Phlegm Factory took a seat just a few feet away, Sherlock's glance bounced around the room, searching for an escape route…and there it was – the sign for the Toilets. He launched himself out of his chair and strode determinedly through the exit and into the womblike security of the Men's Room.

ooOoo

**Many thanks, once again, to WayTooEasilyObsessed for the 'constant wet cough' idea. Comedy gold!**


	5. Juror Number Twelve - Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Sherlock remained in the sanctum sanctorum of the toilet cubicle until he heard the unmistakeable sound of a large number of people moving along the corridor outside and correctly deduced that all the jurors-in-waiting were being escorted to the venue where their induction was to take place. He waited until the volume of traffic reduced to a trickle, then exited the Men's Room and followed on behind. Down into the bowels of the courthouse they went until they were funnelled into a court room numbered '11'. A Clerk of the Court – the ID-check lady – positioned outside the door to Court Room 11, was handing each person a printed sheet of A4 paper. Sherlock took the one proffered to him and stepped through the door.

A quick glance around took in the familiar geography of a court room and he headed for the area normally occupied by members of the press, when the court was in session. He took a seat on the back row and scanned the room for Mr Helpful, Mr Loquacious and Mr Human Phlegm Factory. The first two were sitting in the Jury Box and the Public Gallery, respectively. The third was nowhere to be seen – or heard, for that matter – and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He had probably been weeded out and sent home, deemed too much of a distraction to serve on a live case, at this time.

_Damn_, thought Sherlock, _a persistent wet cough! Why didn't I think of that?_

As everyone was present and seated, the Clerk who had been handing out the sheets of paper at the door took up a position at the front of house, beside the Judge's Chair, and opened proceedings.

She started by identifying all the different parts of the court room - where the Defendant sat (at the back of the court, behind a glass screen), where the Jury sat (in the box with exactly twelve chairs), where the Counsel for the Defence sat (always closest to the Jury), where the Counsel for the Prosecution sat (always furthest away from the Jury), where the Judge sat and the Court Recorder, the Clerk of the Court, the press, the members of the public and, finally, where the witnesses would sit to give evidence, in the Witness Box. This court room also had a mezzanine floor which provided additional space for members of the public, since this was the court room where all the most notorious cases were tried.

Having explained all that, the Clerk went on to describe how the business of court would be conducted, the traditions and protocols, who wore wigs and who didn't, how the judge must be addressed – in this case, 'My Lord' or 'My Lady' – and lots of other items of very little interest to Sherlock, although the rest of the audience seemed enthralled by it all. She then outlined the regular breaks in proceeding for morning coffee, lunch and afternoon tea and what a juror must do if, mid-session, they felt an urgent need to use the bathroom.

'Don't suffer in silence,' she urged. 'If you're dying for a pee, you're not going to be able to concentrate on what's going on so attract the attention of the Clerk by raising your hand or passing a note. There is a lavatory just outside the door, here, and the session will be halted while you are escorted there and back.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the likelihood of anyone doing that. More than likely, they would all rather suffer extreme dehydration than risk making themselves the centre of attention in such a manner.

But the Clerk had that one covered, too.

'Don't make the error of dehydrating rather than risking the need for a comfort break,' she warned. 'In all likelihood, there's someone else in the same predicament and they will, no doubt, take advantage of your interruption. Let's face it, if Roger Federa can go to the loo in the middle of a Wimbledon Final, watched by millions of people worldwide on TV, you can too.'

Sherlock had no idea who this Roger Federa person was, neither was he familiar with the protocol of a Wimbledon Final, but he was a bit surprised to learn that participants were required to urinate in full view of a worldwide TV audience! What would his mother – a Wimbledon stalwart, in her day - think of that, he wondered.

The topic had changed and now the Clerk was explaining what the printed form, a copy of which they had all been given, was for. This was their expenses claim form. They must keep it in a safe place and, after their Jury Service was ended, submit it by post – or on line – to the relevant department. She explained how such expenses were calculated, depending on the form of transport used – no allowance given for walking, Sherlock noted, which he felt to be rather remiss since taking one's shoes to the cobblers was a very expensive business these days – and how the subsistence allowance of £5.17 per day was payable to everyone, regardless of their circumstances. She then explained how lunches could be ordered from the in-house caterers in advance, online, to save time in the lunch break which was 1 pm to 2 pm, every day.

This was all rather mundane and Sherlock was beginning to feel bored and restless but the lady continued on, explaining that the building was a No Smoking area and the only place smoking was permitted was outside the main entrance but if you went outside the court, for any reason, you would need to go through security again, on your return; that, once a case had begun, nothing that one heard in court could be discussed outside the court except with other members of the jury and only then if all jury members were present and no one else could overhear; that only evidence heard in court was relevant to the case and that researching anything to do with the case - online or by any other means - was strictly prohibited, as was sharing any information on line, through social media or by talking to friends and relatives, as this could jeopardise the case and, possibly, cause a mistrial. The consequence of any such transgression was to risk being found in contempt of court, which may incur a hefty fine or even a term of imprisonment.

Well, Sherlock knew all about that.

The next topic was how a jury of twelve was selected from a jury group of sixteen. The onus was placed on any member of a jury group to recuse themselves if they had any connection with the defendant, the crime or any of the witnesses to the crime. Once these persons had been excluded, twelve remaining names would be drawn at random, from whoever was left, to form the jury. They would be sworn in and the case would commence.

At this point, someone put up a hand.

'What happens if a jury member falls ill during the trial,' she asked.

'This rarely happens,' the lady explained. 'Usually, people soldier on unless its something really serious, like a heart attack, in which case the trial would have to be stopped, the jury dismissed, a new jury sworn in and the trial begin again.'

Another person raised a hand.

'Why don't you have some jury members in reserve, hearing the case on the side-lines, ready to step in if needed?' he asked.

'If it's a really long case, likely to go on for months, we do have a couple of reserve jurors who do just that but it can cause all kinds of complications so we try to avoid having to use them, if at all possible', the lady replied.

Now the topic changed to something about Jury Determination, when juries retire to consider the evidence and determine whether or not the Defendant is Guilty or Not Guilty. Sherlock's patience was completely exhausted now so he phased out and took a stroll around his Mind Palace. The next thing he knew, everyone was rising and filing out of the court. He tagged on the end, again, and followed the crowd back to the Jury Assembly Room, where they were told to wait and 'Barbara' would 'have a chat' with them.

'Barbara', it transpired, was the lady who had been typing furiously, all morning, at the table in the corner. It turned out that typing was not her only skill or responsibility. She explained that no new cases were due to start that day so they would all be sent home, now, but they were officially 'on call' and could expect to be 'called' at any time during the next ten working days.

'I will never call you the same day you are required to attend,' she explained. 'You will be notified the day before that you need to present yourselves the next day. The normal form of notification is by text. This is outsourced to a private company, now, so once the call has gone out, I will personally ring one of you – chosen at random – to verify that you have all received the summons. Any questions?'

One lady raised her hand.

'Not a question, really, but I live in a signal black spot so I have no mobile connection in my home. They will have to call me on my landline.'

Barbara made a careful note of the lady's name and then, since there were no further questions, told them all they could leave.

Day One was over.

And it was only eleven o'clock!

ooOoo


	6. Juror Number Twelve - Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

Sherlock stepped from the cab outside Southwark Crown Court on Day Two of his Jury Service. The text had arrived at three o'clock the previous afternoon, requiring him to present himself at the courthouse by ten thirty the following morning. Having learned from his experience of the previous day and anxious to avoid the necessity to queue, he had timed his arrival for ten a.m. And he was pleased to observe that there was no queue - not outside the court entrance, at least.

Once inside the main doors, he saw only two people ahead of him waiting to be processed by the security guards. He approached the counter and placed his property in one of the grey plastic trays before stepping through the metal detector arch. No beep on this occasion – the suit he had chosen to wear today did not require a belt.

He made his way through the building to the Jury Assembly Room. There was no reception committee today, just the lady at the desk in the corner, still typing furiously. It occurred to Sherlock that she may have been there all night but he quickly dismissed that thought as whimsical and unworthy of his higher intellect. Scanning the room, it was clearly far more sparsely populated than the day before. So not everyone had been summoned today. This augured well for the prospect of seeing some action, thank god. No more waiting around! He gave a nod of satisfaction and took a seat.

Half an hour later, when the room was slightly fuller, Typist Lady – _Barbara, was it?_ Sherlock wasn't sure - stood up and called for everyone's attention.

'Now you're all present,' she began, 'I can advise you that two new cases are scheduled to begin today so I've divided you into two jury groups. I'm going to read out your names now. Would you please identify your selves by calling out 'Here' or something similar?'

She gave the occupants of the room an indulgent smile and began to read out a list of names. Sixteen names and sixteen responses later, she advised this jury group that they had been assigned to Court Room Three and would be called when required.

Barbara then read out sixteen more names, including Sherlock's, and informed this group that they had been assigned to Court Room Five.

'There is a case ongoing in Court Room Five,' she explained, 'but the jury in that case is about to be retired to consider its verdict. While they're deliberating, your case will begin. Someone will come and collect you shortly.'

_Thank god!_ thought Sherlock.

All this sitting around was having a detrimental effect on his humour. He was feeling extremely restless. He considered going outside for a cigarette but he didn't want to risk being absent when his jury group was called so he chose to retreat to his Mind Palace instead and have a browse through some cold cases he had stored there for moments such as this, when he needed a distraction from boredom.

A voice broke into his reverie,

'The jury for Court Room Five, please,' it said.

Sherlock leapt to his feet, slightly disorientated from being dragged from his Mind Palace so unceremoniously. He wasn't sure how much time had elapsed – it seemed like mere seconds - but he was glad things were finally moving.

'The sitting jury for Court Room Five,' said the clerk who had come to collect them, looking pointedly at Sherlock. He looked back at the man, brow furrowed, not sure what point the man was making.

A lady tapped him on the shoulder.

'This isn't you,' she whispered.

_Of course!_ Sherlock realised, just refraining from slapping his hand to his forehead. This was the jury that was about to be retired to consider their verdict. He nodded his appreciation to the lady juror and retook his seat, as the Clerk of the Court shepherded the sitting jury off to Court Room Five.

Sherlock was tempted to retreat back to his Mind Palace but was deterred by the possibility that he might miss his call to action when it eventually came. Instead, he strolled over to the coffee machine and served himself a double espresso, without – on this occasion – any unwanted assistance. He had, in fact, not seen hide not hair of Mr Helpful or Mr Loquacious, today. He could only assume they had not been summoned by text the day before.

An hour and a half and a great deal of toe tapping and heavy sighing later, a Clerk appeared and called for the Jury Group assigned to Court Room Five.

_At last!_ Sherlock jumped to his feet and almost bounded over to the lady in the gown. Once all sixteen members of the group were assembled, they were led from the Jury Assembly Room and down through the bowels of the building to a small lobby outside Court Room Five.

'Please wait here a moment,' the Clerk requested and disappeared through the door. There followed a brief interval which felt more like an hour to Sherlock and he was beginning to lose hope of ever getting into Court Room Five when the Clerk reappeared and ushered them all into court.

Scanning the room, Sherlock took in the judge, in her wig and gown, sitting at the front of the court. Over to the right, in the Press seats, was a lady journalist he recognised… _Kitty Riley_. His lip curled in disgust. _Still waiting for her big break_, he sneered, inwardly. He was about to look away but she spotted him and their eyes locked. She gave a small squeak of alarm, jumped up and scuttled from the court room. Sherlock brow wrinkled at her rather extreme reaction but then he shrugged and dismissed her from his mind.

The judge was speaking.

'Ladies and gentlemen, before we begin the jury selection process, we need to ascertain whether any of you have a connection with the case to be heard,' she explained. 'so please turn and look at the Defendant.'

They all dutifully turned to stare at the man seated behind the glass screen in the 'dock'.

'His name is Anthony Moon but he also goes by the name of Loony Ant. Are any of you familiar with him?' asked the judge.

Sherlock scrutinised the man's face. There was something vaguely familiar about him but Sherlock could not put his finger on it. Should he recuse himself on such tenuous grounds? Before he could complete his considerations, the judge spoke again.

'This man is charged with Grievous Bodily Harm against a man called Patrick Rouse. Do any of you know Mr Rouse?'

That sense of familiarity was increased a notch. Patrick Rouse…Patrick Rouse…

'The alleged assault took place at the Green Dragon public house in Limehouse…'

_Ah!_ thought Sherlock, as the tumblers all clicked into place. He had read about this case in the newspaper. This was a suspected gangland feud, a turf war between two rival drug barons. And mention of the pub had obviously struck a chord with two other prospective jurors as a man and a woman put up their hands and were directed to take a seat on the other side of the court room.

Sherlock considered his options. Should he admit his knowledge of the case and join his erstwhile companions on the seats opposite? If he did so, what would happen? Would he be shipped back upstairs to sit around for another few hours of mind-numbing inaction? And what if this wasn't the last case that he found himself familiar with? After all, he read all the papers from cover to cover every day – local, national and international – so the chances of him having come across any case due to be heard here at Southwark Crown Court were extremely high.

He imagined a sort of Ground-hog Day scenario, wherein case after case would be paraded in front of him and he would have to raise his hand and take a seat on the other side of the court, return to the infinite purgatory of the Jury Assembly Room, every day for the duration of his Jury Service…

_No! _

Sherlock kept his hand down by his side, pressed firmly against his leg, and waited for the Clerk of the Court to identify the two recusers so that their names could be removed from the random ballot. Then the remaining name cards were shuffled and the Clerk began to read out the names of the selected jurors.

ooOoo


	7. Juror Number Twelve - Chapter Six

**This chapter is a bit short but it seemed like a good place to break. :)**

**Chapter Six**

Sherlock stood in the midst of the rapidly diminishing group of jurors-in-waiting, as name after name was read out and the chosen ones took their seats in the Jury Box, starting at the far end of the front row and – after Number Seven – filling up the back row. Sherlock began to fear he wasn't going to make the cut and felt a surprising sense of disappointment – rejection, even. But, with just one seat remaining, the Clerk read out,

'Sherlock Holmes.'

With a feeling of great relief, he took his place on the end of the back row and watched, with smug satisfaction, as the remaining two people – the rejects - were directed to sit beside the recused individuals on the far side of the court room.

His attention then switched back to the judge as she was addressing the 'chosen ones'.

'Ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, please take note of where you are sitting and who is seated next to you. This is where you must sit throughout the proceedings until you have discharged your duties as jurors.'

All the jurors, with the singular exception of Sherlock, looked at the person or persons sitting next to them and exchanged a self-conscious smile. Sherlock continued to look at the judge. He knew where he was sitting - he was Juror Number Twelve – and he had already scanned the lady sitting beside him and logged her personal history in his Mind Palace. He sighed, impatiently, wishing they would just get on with it!

The judge continued.

'You will now be sworn in. You will each find on the desk in front of you a card bearing the words of the legal oath and, at the end of each row, there is a copy of the Holy Bible. You will stand and, holding the Bible in your left hand, repeat the words of the oath, then pass the book to the person on your right.'

Juror Number One picked up the book from the desk in front of him and held it, at the ready.

'Some of you may be of a different faith and may choose an alternative holy book on which to swear your oath. If this is the case, please raise your hand and indicate to the Clerk which book you would prefer.'

None of the jurors raised their hands at this point.

'Some of you may prefer to Affirm rather than Swear. Please identify yourselves to the Clerk.'

Sherlock and two others raised their hands. The Clerk nodded his acknowledgement then summoned Juror Number One to begin the swearing in process.

Sherlock listened with half an ear as each of his co-jurors made their pledge until it was his turn and he rose to his feet. The Clerk handed him the card bearing the Affirmation, of which there was apparently only one copy, to be shared by all three.

'I do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that I will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence,' Sherlock intoned, his rich baritone reverberating around the court room. He handed the card back to the Clerk and retook his seat.

'May I now remind you of your duties as jurors,' the judge said. 'As a juror, you have taken a Legal Oath or Affirmation to try the defendant based only on the evidence heard in court.'

Sherlock gave a little huff. That phrase 'evidence heard in court' could be open to interpretation, surely? What he 'heard' might be somewhat different to that which others might perceive.

'This means the fairness of the trial depends on you following a few very important legal rules. Before you leave this court today, you will be given a document listing all these rules. You must read this document and make sure you understand and follow them at all times.'

On hearing these words, Sherlock's lips pursed and brow furrowed but he took the document handed to him by the Clerk of the Court and placed it - rather disdainfully - on the desk in front of him.

'Now,' the judge went on, exchanging her solemn expression for a bright smile. 'Because there are a few administrative tasks that need to be completed before we can make a start on this case, the proceeding will not begin until tomorrow. So you may all go home now but I would like you in your places, ready to begin, at ten o'clock sharp tomorrow morning.'

Sherlock groaned audibly. _Go home? Again?_ This was Day Two and he hadn't heard a single word of evidence yet! But the other jurors were already on their feet and filing out to the Jury Box – those on the front row, at least. Those on the back row were waiting for Sherlock to stand up and lead the way, since he was currently blocking their exit with his rather long knees. He rose disconsolately to his feet and turned to go.

'Don't forget this,' said Juror Number Eleven, tapping him on the shoulder and waving the Rules crib sheet in his direction, smiling sweetly. He took it from her with a surly frown and strode from the court.

ooOoo

'You did what?' exclaimed Molly.

Sherlock shrugged in exasperation.

'What else could I do?'

Sherlock knew exactly what else he should have done and so did Molly so there was no response to that question. Instead, she said,

'You know what will happen if they find out.'

Actually, he didn't. But Molly was giving him that 'look' she reserved for when she was really disappointed. He had let her down. Again.

'I suppose they might fine me,' he proffered, 'but how are they going to find out? You're not going to tell them, are you? And, apart from me, you're the only person who knows that I read all the papers from front to back, every day and twice on Sundays.' He gave her a winsome smile and reached for her hand, bringing it to his lips and kissing it, lightly, on the knuckles.

'And us, Daddy. We know, too,' piped up Freddie, who had been following this conversation, at the supper table, with great interest.

'You wouldn't snitch on your own father, would you?' Sherlock exclaimed, feigning shock and indignation.

Freddie giggled and, naturally, Violet joined in even though she really didn't understand the joke. But if Freddie found it funny, that was good enough for her.

'You're incorrigible,' Molly sighed, shaking her head. 'And a terrible example to our children.'

But this only made Freddie and Violet laugh even more.

'Any way, I don't remember any of the details of the case. It wasn't of any great interest. A Four, at best,' Sherlock declared, waving a hand dismissively...and promptly changed the subject.

ooOoo


	8. Juror Number Twelve - Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

It was Day Three of Sherlock's Jury Service experience and he arrived at the court house at nine thirty on the dot, mindful of the judge's instruction to be in situ, in Court Room Five, at ten o'clock sharp.

He passed through security without incident and made his way to the Jury Assembly Room, where he helped himself to his now customary double espresso and took his seat in the far corner of the room, from where he could observe all the comings and goings.

The members of the sitting jury for Court Room five, who had been sent out to deliberate the day before, were all sitting together to his left. They obviously had not yet reached a verdict and, from their body language, he could see that there was discontent within the group.

Two ladies, sitting slightly apart from the others, were engaged in a whispered exchange punctuated by frequent side-long glances at another jury member - the foreman, Sherlock deduced. There was clearly some difference of opinion which the two conspirators shared but the rest of the jury didn't and, therefore, had been unable to come to a majority verdict. For this reason, the deliberations had run to a second day, which no one seemed terribly happy about.

Observing this scene, Sherlock gave a rye smile. The two ladies were clearly in breach of Rule Number 2 which stipulated that, during the trial, one can only discuss the case with the eleven other jurors and only when they were all together and there was no risk of being overheard. In this instance, although the jurors were in principle all together, the other ten were not privy to this conversation and there was every possibility that anyone waiting at the canteen counter, directly behind the two ladies, would be able to overhear their whispered conversation.

Sherlock flipped through the Rules pamphlet in his mind's eye, to the part about what to do if one felt the rules had been broken.

_It is your DUTY to REPORT any BREACHES of these rules_, he 'read'.

When did he become some an expert on the rules, he mused?

The night before, after the children had been put to bed, Molly had insisted he sit down and read the through the 'Your legal Responsibilities as a Juror' pamphlet from cover to cover, and had then taken the precaution of testing him on the content.

'_What does it say about looking for information about your case?' she asked, giving him a piercing stare._

'_Did you ever consider becoming an interrogator rather than a pathologist?' he asked._

'_Don't change the subject. And answer the question!' Molly replied, sharply._

_Sherlock sighed deeply then recited,_

'_It is illegal for you to look for any information at all about your case on the internet or elsewhere during the trial. This means you cannot look for any information about any person involved in the case. This means any defendant, witness or anyone associated with the case including the judge and legal teams; the crime or the crime scene; the law and legal terms used in the case; or court procedures. It is also illegal for you to ask anyone else to look for you.'_

'_Very good,' said Molly. 'Now, what does it say about News stories about your case?'_

_It says that if you see or hear any news stories about your case you should pay no attention to them because all the information you need to decide the case will be given to the jury in the evidence you hear in court and the instructions on the law that the judge gives you…Look, can we stop this?' Sherlock huffed. 'It should be obvious by now that I have committed the entire document to memory.'_

'_I know you too well, Mr Holmes,' Molly retorted, through pursed lips. 'Memorising these rules would not trouble you. It's the likelihood of you deleting them from your memory that concerns me.'_

_Sherlock reached over and gently pulled the pamphlet from Molly's hand and moved up close to his wife on the sofa._

'_I do solemnly and sincerely declare and affirm that I will not to do that and, from now on, I will obey the rules to the letter,' he assured her and sealed his promise with a kiss._

So, since he had made that commitment, should he now 'out' these two ladies to the Clerk of the Court who had just come to collect the sitting jurors and whisk them off to the deliberating room? Ah, too late… They'd already gone. Sherlock settled back into his seat and tried to blot out the disapproving glare of Mind Palace Molly.

It was almost ten o'clock and, in a very short time, he would be on his way down to Court Room Five to begin his jury service proper. He felt a slight frisson of excitement, which he quickly suppressed. This case was barely a Four, he reminded himself.

Time passed as Sherlock dipped in and out of his Mind Palace, reciting the Periodic Table to himself, calculating pi to thirty decimal places and, as a last resort, listing the first ten thousand prime numbers. He looked at the huge wall clock. It was twelve noon! The judge had said be ready to go at ten a.m. What on earth was holding things up?

'Jury for Court Room Five,' announced a voice and, with great relief, Sherlock jumped to his feet and strode ahead of the other eleven jurors down to the court room, where he stood to one side, allowing his four fellow members of the back row to take their seats before he took his.

Once they were all seated and the exit door was closed, the judge spoke.

'Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, firstly, I must apologise for the delay this morning and thank you for your patience.'

_Don't thank me_, thought Sherlock, _I have no patience!_

'Now, unfortunately – and this should not trouble you, since it is a matter for the court to deal with and, therefore, none of your concern – there has been an objection made to myself from the Council for the Defence and, as a result, this case cannot proceed at this time, in this court and with this jury.'

There was an almost unanimous gasp from the jurors, not least from Sherlock himself.

_What on earth? Just when things appeared to be getting started…!_

He felt…how did he feel? He searched his database of emotional responses for the closest match and came up with…'disappointed'! How did that happen? He didn't even want to do jury service so what was the problem? He couldn't put his finger on exactly when the switch had occurred, only that he had been really looking forward to getting his teeth into this case

'Consequently, I am now discharging this jury. Please leave the court,' the judge concluded.

It took a moment or two for the jury members to process the information that they had been dismissed but the Clerk of the Court who had accompanied them down from the Jury Assembly Room was beckoning, urging them to stand and file out of the court. One by one, they complied, amid a great deal of disgruntled mumbling and chuntering. Sherlock brooded, silently.

Back in the Purgatory Room, as Sherlock had renamed it, the group was met by Head Jury Wrangler, Barbara.

'I do apologise, ladies and gentlemen, this is just one of those things that occasionally happens. But I must prevail upon your patience a little longer while I find out what is to be done with you. If you wouldn't mind sitting over there…' she pointed to Sherlock's 'special' corner of the room '…and I'll get back to you as soon as I know what's happening.'

Sherlock made a beeline for the coffee machine - a ploy to delay taking a seat until the other jurors had taken theirs. He prodded the machine into life and tapped his finger, irritably, on the counter while he waited for it to heat up then served himself a flat white.

One hour later, Sherlock was still brooding and the flat white had gone cold on the table beside him, when Barbara approached, wringing her hands.

'Well, ladies and gentlemen, thank you again for your patience but I do have some bad news. The case you were assigned to will now be heard in Court Room Three by the judge and jury assigned to that room. And, since we have no new cases beginning tomorrow or Friday – and I have more than enough jurors to call on next week, I am taking the decision to dismiss you all. Your jury service is now concluded. So, all that remains is for you all to complete your expenses claims forms and either give them to me, now, or pop them in the post and you will receive your remunerations within a week or two. Thank you.'

With a dismissive smile, Barbara turned on her heel and trotted back to the desk in the corner. The now defunct jury for Court Room Five was already dispersing. Most of them headed straight for the exit but a couple went over to the canteen counter to collect the lunches they had ordered in advance and would now be taking away with them.

Sherlock let them all get away before he rose, slowly, and made his way out of the building. He would take a walk beside the river, to clear his mind of this whole Jury Service debacle…

'Mr Holmes?'

He turned to see a figure in a wig and gown hurrying down the courthouse steps toward him. He recognised the man as one of the Prosecution team for the GBH case.

_What now?_ he thought, irritably.

'Mr Sherlock Holmes?' his pursuer asked. 'The famous Consulting Detective?'

'Consulting Detective? Yes. Famous? I wouldn't know,' Sherlock snapped._ Was this one of those strange 'fan' people who popped up from time to time? Would he, at any moment, be asking for a 'selfie', whatever one of those was._ 'Can I help you with something?'

'I do hope so, Mr Holmes. My lead counsel and I would like to call you as an expert witness for the prosecution of the Limehouse assault case.'

Sherlock frowned. His only previous experience as an expert witness had ended rather badly, he seemed to remember.

'Mr Holmes, the prosecution team are not at all sure we can secure a guilty verdict in this case. Some of the evidence is circumstantial, flimsy at best. We would be so grateful if you would take a look at the evidence and give us your expert opinion.'

Sherlock paused for a moment, mulling over this proposition, and came to a decision.

'Very well, Mr…'

'Davies, Angus Davies, Second Chair for the Prosecution.'

'Very well, Mr Davies. I will take a look at your evidence and if I find clear proof of guilt, I will be more than happy to appear as an expert witness for the Prosecution. However, if I find clear evidence of innocence, I will be offering my services to the Defence team.'

He quirked an eyebrow in the direction of the earnest young man, seeking a response.

'That will be perfectly satisfactory, Mr Holmes,' Angus Davies replied, offering his hand to seal the agreement before turning and leading the way back into the court house.

ooOoo

**So Sherlock did get his day in court...just not quite as he had imagined.**

**I hope you enjoyed this 'bit of fun' story. Thank you all for reading and, especially, for reviewing. :)**


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